


In This House We Edge

by tigbit



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: An edged Ben is a happy Ben, Butt Plugs, Edgeplay, F/M, Humor, Office Sex, Rey's had a Bad Day, Semi-Public Sex, Wildly oscillating mood swings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 07:43:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17977202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigbit/pseuds/tigbit
Summary: “Hey, so, speaking of food, what are your thoughts on me bringing you lunch? In the future, of course,” she adds, just a beat too late. “What would the—where would I go? Hypothetically?”“Why is your voice echoing?”Damn the First Order and their penchant for aesthetically pleasing tall ceilings.Anddamn their love of chrome. “It’s not echoing.”“Rey, are you in a bathroom?”Someone flushes. “No.”--A fic in which Rey attempts to bring Ben lunch, and things just get a little Out of Hand.





	1. Chapter 1

“Why didn’t you _say_ anything?”

Finn looks up from the couch, fingers paused mid-text. “The last time I tried to tell you how to cook, you threw my keys in the trash.” 

“I only moved them,” she growls, because the microwave’s timer is absolutely moving slower than it should. Every second feels like five as the icy chicken rotates and rotates and mocks her from the pan. 

“You moved them to the trash, technically, but now is not the time to quibble.” She can hear the faint buzz of his phone as he goes back to typing. “How much longer?”

She grinds her teeth. “Ten minutes.” 

“How long does it need to bake?”

The recipe’s directions on the counter feel like an accusing, weighty stare on her back. She knows perfectly well that it says something about roasting and tossing and broiling and that all the bolded minutes added up equal…god, it can’t really be forty, can it? She bites her lip, flicking her eyes away from the microwave to check the clock. 

Fuck.

Isn’t there some kind of cheat where she can up the temperature and carve off a minute or five? And she’s not exactly sure what broiling is, but it very nearly sounds like boiling and she never pays attention to the timing on that, anyway. It can’t matter that much. Finn hasn’t tried to hide his leftovers in the coffee grounds since…well, since last Tuesday, but that was only because she’d never cooked fish. 

“Rey?”

“Thirty minutes,” she says determinedly, eyes back on the chicken. “I need thirty minutes.” 

“And Solo’s lunch starts when?” 

Rey throws him a glare and doesn’t bother to answer. Finn knows when Ben’s lunch starts because Finn shared the same lunch for the three years he worked at First Order. She knows he’s only asking because despite all her recent attempts at exposure therapy, Finn still hates Ben enough to be pleased at the idea of him missing lunch. 

Ben will _not_ miss his lunch.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that it wouldn’t thaw in the fridge,” she snaps, because she only wants to focus on one crisis at a time. 

“The journey to culinary excellence is an arduous, desolate road best travelled alone.” The wood floor groans as he stands up and joins her at the counter. “Besides,” he nudges her softly with his elbow, “You would have resented it. The last thing you want in the kitchen is my advice.” 

“That’s not true,” she mumbles. 

He lets the lie hang in the air long enough for Rey to feel ashamed. “It is,” he corrects, but kindly. “You have issues with food.” 

She grimaces. 

He’s right, of course. It’s something she knows she should unpack with a therapist, but the last time she had affordable access to counseling of any kind was in college. She has a job but working for the city high school satisfies her soul, not her bank account. 

At least she’s better. At least she no longer eats hunched over her plate, one eye on whoever else shares the table. She’s learned to have preferences, if only mild ones, and it’s gotten easier to bite back a _no_ when one of her friends asks to try a bite of whatever she’s ordered or made. Cooking things—good, not-from-a-box, edible things—is one of her last challenges, and she’s determined to be successful. She sets goals. Goals that any normal person should be able to achieve. 

Like cooking a surprise lunch for her boyfriend. 

_Fuck_ chicken. 

And suddenly the timer’s beeping and she’s nothing but a fuzzy, person-shaped blur in the kitchen. The chicken is slapped with oil and seasoned and thrown haphazardly on the onions, potatoes, and peppers before she forces herself to gently put the sheet in the oven. She steams zucchini in that contraption Finn’s always using because what if the potatoes aren’t done? Should she heat up the leftover spaghetti as a second back up? Ben’s huge. He could probably eat everything in the fridge and still be hungry. 

That thought catapults her into a new level of panic, so she steals some of the hummus Poe left from game night and unashamedly dumps it out of the grocer’s packaging into a nondescript bowl because she _knows_ Ben wouldn’t care, but he’s worth homemade hummus and that’s something she currently can’t provide. 

She hushes the voice that wonders if she can provide anything at all. 

“Do you need help?” Finn asks more than once, and it’s embarrassing how quietly he says it, how he only offers as he pretends to do something else close by. Like he knows she needs to be able to pretend he hadn’t asked in the first place. 

“No,” she makes herself say. And because it’s Finn and because he’s asking even though she’s cooking for the boyfriend he hates, she also tries to smile. It’s painful. “I’ve got it.” 

He nods resignedly, and two minutes later she’s waving goodbye as he leaves, his gym bag slung over his shoulder. 

With Finn out of the house, part of her bravery disappears. She deflates even though the oil sizzles faintly in the oven and there’s a promising, spicy smell wafting in the air. The backup food is already packed. The bowl for the chicken is out and waiting. By all accounts, she’s set herself up for an unmitigated level of success. 

Somehow, she still feels like a fraud. 

This had been hard. Unnecessarily hard. In the new quiet, it somehow doesn’t matter that she can slice up a watermelon or that she practically glowed when Rose gushed about her chocolate chip cookies. She’s the Rey she used to be—overwhelmed in the spice aisle, unwilling to admit that she didn’t know where to begin. 

With a disparaging look at the clock, she uncorks a bottle of wine. 

\--

“I understand that this is a private lot.” 

“Then for the fifth time, you understand you need clearance.”

One of the cars behind her honks impatiently. It’s the third one in the last fifteen seconds. Rey clamps down on the need to flip them off, focusing on smiling sweetly for Pete, gate guardian and would-be winner of the Shit Bag Olympics. “You’re trying to do your job,” she makes herself say, “and I realize it would be breaking protocol, but I swear to god I’m just trying to deliver lunch.” She points to the bag sitting in the passenger seat. “Isn’t that a thing? You can check for yourself. It’s just chicken.”

He spins his clipboard around and thunks it on the sill of his window. “Do you see your name?” he asks impatiently. “Because I don’t.”

“No,” she admits, recognizing the name of a restaurant or two. Fuck. It didn’t even occur to her that Ben might have ordered out. “but that’s only because I’m trying to surprise someone.”

“Oh? And who might that be?”

Another car honks. Rey shifts in her seat, hands clutching and releasing the steering wheel, sticky in the afternoon heat. “Ben Solo.”

Pete barks out a laugh. “You’re serious. Who’s he to you?”

Rey bristles. “How is that your business?” 

She shouldn’t have said it. Pete instantly puffs up and his tone, already laced with douchebaggery, hardens. “Whoever tries to get past this gate is my business. The First Order doesn’t fuck around. I’m not losing my job because you couldn’t bother to come up with a better lie.” 

“A _lie_?” Another horn blares, longer this time. “I didn’t say anything!”

“Please,” he scoffs. “Of all the fake boyfriends you could have picked, you choose Solo. Like he’d date someone like you.”

Her mouth falls open. “Someone like—” 

“Look at you.” The way he assesses her car feels like a tangible thing. Suddenly, Rey is acutely aware of her Chevy, how she hasn’t yet got around to grinding out the new rust on the fender or popped out the dent from her neighbor’s softball. The driver’s door is clean, but it _is_ a different color and the window _is_ stuck halfway down. It hadn’t seemed like a big deal at the time; she’d been giddy when she’d talked the junkyard down to $60. 

It shouldn’t matter. 

And then—uncomfortably, unwillingly—she thinks about herself. There hadn’t been time to shower. Her tank had been clean before cooking, but she did use the hem as a towel after she spilled a little oil on the oven. Even though she fixed it two weeks ago, she hadn’t used the air conditioner in the car out of habit. The combination of hair grease and the stuck window has undoubtedly done very progressive things to her hair. 

It still shouldn’t matter. 

But as she waits for her tongue to unfreeze, Rey inexplicably feels her past put a chokehold on her heart. Suddenly she is every inch homeless. She is not 27 with a job and a car; she is asking Finn how to hold a fork. She is red-faced, escorted out of the library for washing her hair in the sink. She is sitting in a classroom, so shocked at her luck when they call her name for roll that she cannot raise her hand. For an instant, Rey is that woman and not this one. She is reduced to a drowning thing, too weak to play at being strong. 

_A nobody_ , a small voice suggests. 

Her skin feels tight. “I know how I look.” The horns are a cacophony now. Someone is yelling. She’s kept everyone waiting and she’d feel worse about it, but right now she needs a plan for the sake of her chicken and her sanity. 

_Feel shitty later_ , she commands herself, tucking the feelings far, far away. _Couches are for crises. Parking lots are for defeating guards named Pete_. 

“An officer is on his way.” 

Rey’s head snaps up. Pete’s staring smugly down at her, hands crossed over his ill-fitting uniform. She so very desperately wants to think he’s bluffing, but it’s not hard to see the flashing lights steadily making their way down the long, long drive behind her. 

“Are you fucking serious?” she says. “You called the cops?”

“Happily serious.” He smiles like a jackal. “Listen carefully when they read you your rights and try to do what he says. I know it’s a skill you struggle with, but I’d personally make an effort.“

“My ri—? They’re not going to _arrest_ me.” Surely not. For trying to deliver lunch? Rey feels a drop of sweat slide down her back, anyway. 

“You are on private property. You have refused to leave said private property.” Pete shrugs. Doesn’t get much simpler than that.”

He does have a point. 

There’s a walkie-talkie in Pete’s hand and, craning forward, Rey also spots a phone in his little hut. Somewhere in the looming building ahead, Ben is glaring at his coworkers and definitely not eating lunch. If Ben has been extraordinarily tight-lipped about what he does, she’s gleaned enough from Finn to know that the general population finds him terrifying. She could call him. Even better, she could have Pete call him and then enjoy the subsequent shitshow from the comfort of her car. Ben would be pissed. 

Her stomach twists. 

Ben would be royally pissed, actually, and if Pete’s been an asshole, she’s also technically breaking the rules. Rey’s had her fair share of shitty jobs; she knows no one keeps them if they have better options. Involving Ben would almost certainly mean that Pete would lose his job. The idea of it sits uneasy on her conscience, so she nixes a call. 

Also, she is determined to salvage the day. She will get into the building under her own power, she will deliver her goddamn chicken, and Ben will eat every last crumb, so hel—

A knock on her passenger window. “Ma’am?”

Rey turns to see an officer before she lifts up a hand, waving dazedly. “One moment, please,” she says when he looks confused, and presses her forehead into her steering wheel as hard as she can because jesus fucking christ. 

\--

“—pretty kind about it, I must say. Said he was once detained for trying to surprise his wife with nunchucks on their anniversary. Totally forgot about the metal detector.” When the other end of the line stays silent, Rey pauses, her hand on a branch. “Marta is a big Bruce Lee fan,” she clarifies, because maybe that’s where she lost him. When she still doesn’t hear anything, Rey pulls the phone from her ear and checks to see if she’s still connected. She is. “Finn?”

A heavy, heavy sigh. “I get it, Rey. Derek the cop’s a stand-up guy.” 

“I gave him the hummus in exchange for letting me go with a warning. Don’t tell Poe.” 

“You mentioned that.”

She hums her acknowledgment, and presses on. The bag keeps bumping her hip as she lifts her knees high through the grass. “I think I’m almost there. You said it’s on the right?”

“I did,” he says sullenly. She can hear a couple of false starts before he clears his throat. “You think maybe the universe is telling you that today’s not the day? There’s always tomorrow. Or never.” 

“If today was not the day, Derek would have arrested me. Instead he’s enjoying a delicious chickpea dip and _I’m_ about to sneak through bay door number…five, you said?” 

A groan. “Rey.”

She can see it ahead: the vacant guard hut that Finn described. A one-lane service road runs by it, nestled between overgrown trees and grass that hasn’t been maintained in months. “How is this even here?” she muses, cocking her neck to squeeze-lock her phone to her shoulder. She needs both hands to pull down an errant vine. “I thought the First Order was loaded. Who forgot to call lawn care? And isn’t this supposed to be a ridiculously secure location? Pete put on a damn good show out front.”

“Things…changed, when Ben ousted Snoke.” Rey rolls her eyes. One day Finn will admit that Ben’s changes were _good_ changes, but today she’ll let it lie. He is helping her sneak in, after all. That’s progress. “Priorities shifted. Shipping got pushed to one of the smaller outposts. The main building was re-designated for slightly less illegal corporate bullshit.”

“I see,” Rey says, half-distracted as she scopes out the yard beyond the fence. No guards. No workers. Not even a useless chain to block the driveway. “Are there cameras here?”

Another sigh. “Yes. Someone will see you eventually.” 

“But you said you know the door code?” As long as she can get in and find Ben, any security breaches won’t matter. It’s a corporate building, not a military complex. If she pisses people off, at the end of the day she’s only here to deliver a lukewarm lunch. Ben’s high enough on the company ladder that she’s 85% positive she’ll be forgiven. 

“I said I _knew_ the door code. It’s probably changed.” 

“That’s not a very positive attitude.”

“Maybe that’s because I don’t feel very positive.” 

“Relax,” Rey says, easing out onto the road. She darts past the hut and down the nearest sloped delivery driveway. The bay must open up into the sub-level. Everything smells of ripe rubbish, stale air, and abandonment. “This is good for me. I need this.” 

“Is this because you read that Daniel Silva novel last week? Am I helping you fulfill some kind of spy fantasy? Because there are better, less illegal ways.”

“No and no. I told you how I felt in the car. One comment and I was 18 all over again. I know how stupid it sounds, but if I can’t deliver this lunch, I lose. Pete wins. My pending couch crisis time will be doubled.”

She can easily envision Finn rubbing his temples. “I really hate that you’re doing this to yourself,” he mutters. “I also really hate that I’m helping you.” 

“Such is life,” Rey says, and enters the code. 

\--

Even though she’d vehemently denied living out any kind of spy fantasy, Rey can’t help but feel a little giddy when she slips into a utility closet without being seen. 

She doesn’t need a mirror to know her hair’s still mussed, so she does the best she can with her traveling comb and some water from the sink. The buns she normally wears are not salvageable, so she pulls out the elastics and tries to be happy about the way her hair curls and hides the straps of her tank top. The scarf she’d been using as a belt is quickly transferred to her neck and fluffed up in a way that Rey hopes looks professional and not jarringly out of style. Her shirt’s stain can only be hidden by tucking it into her shorts. There’s not much she can do about her Payless sandals, but fuck anyone who has the nerve to care. Something tells her that it’s all for naught anyway, that no matter how much Ben’s changed the company, no one working for First Order would be caught in less than a $200 tie. 

_You’re not trying to fit in_ , she reminds herself. _You’re just trying to buy time_.

If she can’t look the part of someone who’s actually on the payroll, Rey hopes she can sufficiently pass as someone trying to make a delivery. Scanning the closet, she picks a nondescript box and dumps out the cleaning supplies so she can use it to hide her food. 

One last pat-down for errant twigs and she feels confident enough to twist the handle. 

\--

A problem very quickly presents itself. She has no idea where Ben works. 

She’s not sure whether to credit the false confidence she exudes or sheer luck, but none of the suited professionals she passes so much as acknowledge her presence. She’s leery of studying the (far and few between) signs for too long lest she breaks the spell and gets herself bodily thrown from the building, so she consigns herself to making ineffective loops and exploring random hallways. Her pace remains steady. 

How is it so big? Aren’t companies supposed to _share_ spaces this big? It’s like nothing she’s ever witnessed. Instead of a few floors in a city skyscraper, the First Order is divided into multiple massive buildings sprawled over acres of a second-growth forest. Maybe they got a deal on the land. She’d worry that she broke into the wrong place, but First Order insignias are everywhere—on the mugs people carry, above doorways, on the badges Rey very obviously doesn’t have. 

_This is ridiculous_. It’s disconcerting how much the voice in her head sounds like Finn. _You’re making this more difficult than it needs to be. Just call him_. 

One hand rubs the outline of her phone in her pocket. She’s hesitant because it shouldn’t be this hard, but she’s looked everywhere where he should logically be (the highest floor, the corner offices, places where people look more harried and terrified than average) and no dice. It feels like a last resort, but it might be the only way she can pull this off. 

“Damn it,” she says, and gives a pardon-me smile to the woman who raises her head. “Excuse me.” 

Rey pops into the nearest bathroom. It’s not empty, and she stalls long enough at the sink to know that that’s not going to change. Women constantly filter in and out, all of them outfitted in smart-fitting suits and emanating fierce intelligence. Any one of them looks like she could conquer the world without breaking a sweat. 

Rey tugs on her shorts. 

Huddling near a potted ficus (real, her finger swipe tells her, because of course), Rey patiently waits as her phone rings. Now that she’s not moving, she must look more suspicious. A curly-haired woman shoots Rey at least three too-long glances as she washes her hands. 

Rey turns her back to the sinks. “Pick the fuck up, Ben,” she grits. 

Then he does. “Rey?” His voice is like a balm. She instantly feels calmer—her waning spirit for food-delivery renewed—although she’s known him long enough to tell that she’s interrupted a tense conversation. 

“Hey!” Her body slouches a little in relief, shoulders hitting the wall. “How’s your mom?”

_What?_

There’s a short pause before she can hear him bark _I need a minute_ to someone. The sound of his shoes echo on the floor as he walks away. “The last I checked, still visiting Amilyn in Colorado,” he says slowly, warily. Rey mouths a curse. They’d dropped Leia off at the airport two days ago. How could she forget? “Why? What’s up?”

Get it together. Remember the mission. Steer it back to food. 

“Oh, I just—uh. I wanted to get her…dumpling recipe?” Rey cringes. 

“Is that a question?” He sounds genuinely confused. 

“No?”

“Okay, because I’m pretty sure the only thing I’ve ever seen my mom cook is a burnt pancake back in 1995.”

Rey covers her eyes. “That’s so strange,” she says faintly. And then, before he remembers that Rey once tried and failed to teach Leia how to use a salad spinner, she attempts a masterful pivot. “Hey, so, speaking of food, what are your thoughts on me bringing you lunch? In the future, of course,” she adds, just a beat too late. “What would the—where would I go? Hypothetically?”

“Why is your voice echoing?” 

Damn the First Order and their penchant for aesthetically pleasing tall ceilings. _And_ damn their love of chrome. “It’s not echoing.” 

“Rey, are you in a bathroom?”

Someone flushes. “No.” 

“Are you hiding in a bathroom because you’re trying to bring me lunch?”

“Absolutely not.” She tries to squeeze further behind the ficus. “We’re speaking hypothetically.” 

His voice goes soft. “Did you get turned away at the gate?” 

All her adamancy about keeping this a surprise, and she blows it in the first two minutes of talking to him. She sighs and gives it one last shot. “No. I would have had to drive to the gate to be turned away from the gate. Which obviously didn’t happen. It’s a funny story, but I’m actually at your dad’s sh—”

“Was it Pete?”

She rests her head against the tile and half-smiles at his shift in tone. She knew he’d be pissed. Indignant on her behalf. In a way it’s touching, but it’s also something she needs to nip in the bud. For all his major progress, anger is not a place Ben can safely dwell for long. It leads to broken things and broken people. 

“Pete was doing his job,” she says. 

And that’s it, then. The official end of her grand plan. Even if she pulls it off in the future, it still won’t be as fresh of a surprise as it would have been today. The box at her feet gets a half-hearted kick. A sleep-deprived, slightly insane part of her brain hopes the chicken feels sorry. 

“Was he a dick when he was doing his job?” 

“Ben,” she says, sterner. “No.” 

She hears him let out a measured breath. “I’m in the middle of something, but give me five minutes to wrap up and I’ll meet you. Do you know where you’re at?”

“Not exactly.”

“Main building, right? A bathroom?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I have some constructive criticism to offer regarding your signage. Although kudos to whoever’s in charge of this ficus.” She pets it again, less judgmentally this time. “Top-notch work.” 

“I’ll be sure to pass that along.” The way he says it, unhurried and easy and fond, even though it’s easily one o’clock and he’s in the middle of what is probably an important meeting, even though he probably shouldn’t leave it but will—it sends a rush of affection through her heart. Did he or did he not mention that his office was sound-proofed? Because the chicken might be a lost cause, but he _did_ once insinuate something delightfully nasty about the height of his desk and the drawer with the—

“Ma’am?“

Rey looks up to see two guards with very shiny, very official-looking badges. Ben’s saying something to her over the phone, but it’s quickly taken and put into—Rey squints to see her name—Rowena’s pocket. 

Everyone’s staring at her. Water splashes unused into a sink. 

Rey coughs. “One request,” she says, raising a finger as the two women approach. “I keep my box.” 

\--

“Twice in a day. I’m gunning for my old record.” 

She means it as a joke, but the look Ben throws her isn’t amused. He’s listened to Rey talk about her past—first in drunken slips when he was a fresh member of the crew, later on her couch, even later naked in bed—and while he’s supportive and tells her she’s strong, it always puts him a little on edge. 

_“It just pisses me off,” he’d said once, when she asked. “Your fucking parents. That you had to suffer because they were too fucking dumb to realize you were a gift and not a burden. None of your pain was necessary.” Then he’d gripped her chin a little too hard and kissed her. “None.”_

Changing the subject, it is. 

“You haven’t eaten yet, have you?” Knowing that she’d interrupted a meeting bolsters her hope that he missed lunch. No way could he have bounced out of that meeting so quickly if they weren’t already at the tail end of something that had started long before. “Because I snuck a few pieces of my delivery while you were being an asshole to those guards and I’m pretty pleased. It’s held up well.” 

He brings a hand to her lower back, nudging her down a new hallway. “Telling them not to handcuff you to a chair makes me an asshole?” 

“It was one arm. They were worried. I had a mysterious box, after all.” 

“Your wrist was red.” 

True, although that’s mainly because she kept trying to itch her leg. “Technically, they were doing their job.” 

“ _Technically_ ,” he parrots back, “they weren’t. I added your name to building access three months ago.”

Rey almost stops. Her heart gives an extra thump. “Really?”

He nods, still walking. “So don’t cut them a break.” And Rey’s not too sure how she feels about that, but before she can say anything else, he adds, “Sometimes you give people too much credit. There’s merit in being generous, but it—occasionally people actually do deserve punishment.” 

“Wow.” She frowns because where had _that_ come from? “I’m guessing you had an amazingly sucky meeting?”

They’ve paused in front of a frosted glass door. Rey glances behind Ben to see his secretary, Mitaka, who waves a hello from his chair even though he’s on the phone. She throws him a smile before looking back up at Ben, who’s rubbing the bridge of his nose. 

“I did,” he admits, sighing. “But it—I’m fine. I’ll be fine,” he amends. All of a sudden, his body tenses. Rey catches the faintest whisper of panic on his face before he manages to relax. “So what’s for _lunch?_ ” 

Rey arches an eyebrow. “Why did you just say that so loudly?”

“I didn’t say anything loudly.”

“You said the word ‘lunch’ like I was standing across the room.” 

“Maybe I’m just excited. Maybe I’m just a big fan of _lunch_.”

Mitaka abruptly stops talking. 

“You did it again.” 

“Is it a crime to be excited?” Ben takes the box from her arms and sets it down on the ground, then pulls her in by the elbows just in time to avoid Mitaka as he scrambles out of his chair and flies into Ben’s office.

“No,” she says slowly, turning her head toward the muffled sounds behind the door. “it’s not a crime. I’m just a little confused.”

“We live in confusing times.” He says it with such sincerity and with such intense focus on her eyes that Rey lets out a startled laugh. 

Not that she’s bummed about the upward shift in his spirit, but, “I never knew you were so passionate about food.” She means that. He eats his dinners like he does his taxes—like it’s a chore to be endured, conquered, and forgotten. Food was fuel, nothing more. “Remember last week? Ten minutes into our ride home and you couldn’t even tell me what you ordered.”

“Steak?”

Rey rolls her eyes. “Nice try. You had swordfish. And dessert?”

Bless him, he honestly tries to remember. He works his jaw, studying the ceiling, until he gives a little sigh of defeat. “It was…sugary.”

“You ordered black coffee,” she says, mock-serious. It’s too fun to tease him. She can tell from the new line on his forehead that he’s confused as to whether she’s actually upset. “What did I have?”

He doesn’t say anything.

It’s so hard not to smile. “That’s what I thought. It was rhubarb pie, if you were wondering. Pretty sure I wept with joy. The waiter joked about grabbing an—”

“You were wearing your favorite green dress.” His voice gets deeper when he tries to be quiet, she’s noticed. It’s happening now, and Rey gives into the subconscious desire to step closer. He shifts his grip from her elbows to her hands, bringing them up to rest on his chest. The look in his eyes—dark and devastatingly sincere—transports her out of the office to somewhere quieter. Somewhere private. “You must have worn your hair in braids that day. It was wavy. A little like it is now.” One of his hands delicately cards through the hair that’s fallen over her shoulder. He seems transfixed at the sight. “You smiled when you told me about the fresh pears you’d found at the market. Said they tasted like sugar melting on your tongue.”

“They did.” She doesn’t know why she whispers it.

“Mm.” A quiet hum of agreement. “You hold your breath sometimes when you’re excited, did you know that? I was afraid you were going to pass out when she handed you the menu. You couldn’t decide.” He gives her a soft, small smile, then leans down closer to her ear, his hands low on her back. “I don’t remember what I eat because what I eat doesn’t matter. How could I give a fuck what I order when I’m lucky enough to be with you?”

She swallows, letting the words carry that wave of emotion through her heart that she can never adequately explain. She only knows it makes her feel like she has a home—the pain of her past overshadowed by something bright and precious.

“Well,” she pats his chest twice, buying herself a moment. “That was an impressive save.” And because she cannot trust herself to say what she really means without unraveling, she ducks her head to give him a quick kiss over his heart.

“Did you know that saliva actually stains?”

Rey and Ben turn to see Mitaka, who very much looks like he regrets saying anything at all. Judging from the yearning look he throws toward the elevator, he’s suffering under the weight of their combined stares.

“Oh?” Rey tries to sound interested even as Ben flatly says, “What?”

Mitaka makes a sad attempt at gesturing. It’s hard to tell from the way his hands flutter, but Rey thinks he’s pointing at Ben’s chest. “It was a very, uh. A very sweet gesture.” The kiss, she assumes. “I only mention it because you told me, Mr. Solo, you said one of my duties is to inform you if anyone breaks dress code. Stains are a violation. And saliva does stain. It’s the protein.” He’s breathing far too heavily. “Not that I see saliva. It was, well, the whole thing was very chaste, very romantic, very—”

“Private?” Ben sounds like he’s calling upon at least two oceans’ worth of patience.

“Absolutely,” Mitaka rushes to say. “Absolutely private, and you know? I do have an errand.” He switches his eyes to Rey. “I do most sincerely apologize for the trouble you had with security. I will—I mean, I am off to scold them myself. Right now. Intense scolding.”

He bypasses the elevator for the stairs.

Rey opens and closes her mouth once before she says, “You ready for lunch?”


	2. Chapter 2

Rey tries, she really tries not to overanalyze Ben as he eats.

She fails.

“Too dry?” she asks when he takes too long to swallow his first bite. Then quickly, “Too spicy?” He opens his mouth, but it’s unnecessary. He’d try to let her down easy. “It’s too spicy. Give it back.” Without thinking, she sticks out her hand.

Ben looks at her wriggling fingers. “I’m not spitting out my delicious lunch into your palm,” he says, mouth still half-full. After a moment’s consideration, he narrows his eyes and wheels away from where she’s sitting on his desk. He clutches the Tupperware closer to his chest, shoveling a heaping portion into his mouth. “What’s with all this second-guessing? Ten minutes ago you were bragging about it.”

Rey rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t bragging.”

Ben makes a little circle in the air with his fork as he plots out his next bite. “You should.” He stabs a potato. “It’s delicious.”

“Sweet of you to say.”

He looks up, head cocked. “It’s like you want me to tell you I hate it.”

She tries to scoff and falls really, really short. “That’s not true.”

“Feels a little true.”

Rey scrubs a hand over her face. He’s right, and she doesn’t want to analyze why—not when she’s finally infiltrated his office and semi-successfully delivered his lunch. Her brain should be occupied with other, more exciting things. Like the fact that his office has opaque windows.

“Why are you rubbing your ass on my desk?”

“Not rubbing.” Rey hops back up, trying to envision Ben standing in front of her. Is this or is this not the same height as his dining table? Maybe if he took off his shoes. “Testing.”

Ben raises an eyebrow. “Testing what?”

Rey wiggles a bit more, face frowning until she reaches underneath her thigh to find a binder clip. It’s bent. “Sorry,” she offers, tossing it in the bin. Summoning every ounce of nonchalance lurking in her bones, she keeps a straight face. “You can’t seriously think I would pass up the opportunity to fuck in an office with a lockable door.”

Ben’s eyes darken. Without looking, he sets the Tupperware on the floor. The fork clatters. “You’ve never objected to unlockable office doors in the past.”

“I changed my policy when your dad walked in. That was supremely uncomfortable.”

“He shouldn’t have left us alone.”

“Oh? So it’s his fault?” She likes this game they play—pretending to be unaffected as the tension starts to brew. Whoever breaks first loses. Cheating is allowed and wholly encouraged, so Rey shifts her hands to the bit of visible desk between her thighs. She uses one hand to block easy sight of the other as she rubs herself through her shorts. Ben’s eyes are immediately drawn to the movement.

He stands up.

She keeps her tone airy. “If we’re going to assign blame, I have words for your trainer.” Even if the sex ended rather horrifically, Rey easily remembers how it started: Ben dropping by the shop and taking off his stupidly expensive shirt to lend her a hand. The grease had done lovely, irresistible things to his abs. At that point, her hands were tied. “It would have been a crime not to take advantage.”

“Are we really not going to mention why I came in the first place?”

Rey almost laughs. Oh, yeah. But she’s a professional, so she shakes her head. “Why’s that?”

“Because you were a snoop and found my porn.”

“It’s hardly snooping if you leave it on your dresser.”

“I was throwing it out.” He’s stuck to that story ever since she walked into the bathroom with Saturday Night Beaver and he choked on his mouthwash. She’s not fooled. “You were the one who insisted we watch it.”

He’s between her thighs now, his hands on her knees. It may be a mind trick, but she could swear she feels the heat of each individual finger.

“Turned out it was more inspiring than I thought,” she shrugs, shifting her legs open just that much wider. Welcoming. Ben immediately fills the space by stepping closer. “I hadn’t fully appreciated the potential of working in a mechanic shop. So many opportunities for puns, after all. Grease. Drills. Holes. The porn writes itself.”

“All the sex scenes were on the dance floor.” Is it her imagination, or is he rocking his dick against the front of his desk? She can’t let herself look down to check. The day she forfeits a competition is the day she dies. “How that translated to your demand that I find an excuse to be shirtless at the shop remains a mystery.”

Letting her hand drift down to his zipper backfires: her cunt feels woefully empty when she finds him hard. Is it over now that he’s bitten his lip? “I don’t recall demanding.”

He rocks into her hand once, then abandons her knees in order to grip the crease of her thighs. His hands are big enough that his thumbs rest lightly—so distractingly lightly—on her labia. He watches her as he does it, a faint smile on his lips.

Turnaround is fair play, she supposes.

Scooting forward would mean she loses. She tries to enter the same headspace she does at the end of a workout—separating her mind from her body’s cries to give up. She wants his thumbs to move, to rub at her clit, to spread her open with purpose, but tries to revel in the teasing instead. The light, light rubbing he sets has no rhythm or predictability, though, which makes it harder to stand. It’s oddly paradoxical—the more he touches her, the longer his thumbs sweep up and down—the more Rey feels like he’s not touching her at all.

It helps to know Ben’s tells: he tries to distract himself from her hand, too—occasionally breaking eye contact to quickly look somewhere over her shoulder, a faint pink dusting the tops of his cheeks.

Had they remembered to lock the door?

At this point in the game, Rey refuses to imagine what will happen once she knows for sure. That way lies too tempting of a madness.

She clears her throat and tells herself she doesn’t need to lick his neck. “So how booked is your afternoon?”

There’s a pause as Ben drags himself back to the moment from somewhere far, far away. His eyes look a little glazed. “Yeah.”

Rey laughs. “Yeah?” she asks, and capitalizes on his distraction to rub a knuckle over his cockhead. A little thrill of victory zaps through her heart when he squeezes his eyes shut. “Yeah, you’re booked, or yeah, Rey, you have enough time to blow me before I fuck you across the desk?”

There’s a quick, electric jolt when he swipes his thumb over her clit. Just once. Then his thumbs are back to their original place, rubbing softly. It’s the sweetest, most awful sensation—the stroking of a fire she’s ready to embrace. 

Ben folds in on himself, his forehead bumping her shoulder. His voice does the thing she loves, going low and threaded with need. “There is _always_ time for—”

Someone’s knocking at the door.

It doesn’t quench the lust completely—Rey’s almost happy for the reprieve, to be honest; she feels like she can breathe again—but they both look up with a frown.

“What?” Ben calls, voice hard.

“Your insufferable secretary informs me that you are not alone.” The voice on the other side of the door sounds like it belongs to the type of person who would unironically call someone a peasant. Hux, Rey assumes. “As such, I’ll do you the courtesy of not opening up your door. But I need to speak with you.”

Ben straightens up, eyes gone flinty. Rey mourns the loss of his hands. “I’m busy.”

“Well! In that case, I’ll just cut to the point and ask you why the fuck you thought it was appropriate to abscond from the meeting that took me three fucking weeks to coordinate.” If Rey had to guess, Hux has probably cracked a molar. The teeth-clenching is nearly audible. “Are you even aware how hard it was to convince Tarkin to leave his estate? I had to bribe his ancient ass with a reservation at Onishi. He made me eat that abominable dish because he enjoys my suffering.”

That brings out the ghost of a smirk on Ben’s face. “Hux hates sushi.”

“Sushi!” Hux nearly wails. “And I don’t hate it, Ren. I abhor it.”

“I’m confused what you expect me to do, exactly.” Just like that, any trace of humor evaporates. “I left. Since you’re here, I assume they left. What’s done is done. Bitch at me tomorrow.”

“Proposing a solution for your fuck-up would be appreciated. At the very least, you owe me the courtesy of letting me voice my frustrations at your face instead of a door. I need you to appreciate the level of ire emanating from my person. I was told it’s formidable.”

“’My person’?” Rey mouths at Ben. He rolls his eyes. Scooting off the edge of his desk to stand, she whispers, “Does he hear the way he talks?”

“He knows exactly how he talks.” Ben answers at a normal volume, dodging her swipe. He deposits a quick peck on her temple. She can see the way his eyes beg for her forgiveness; worryingly, she also thinks she can count at least three separate plots for Hux’s bloody murder.

Before she can double-check that he left his fork on the floor, Ben stalks away from her, turning back just long enough to say, “He gets two minutes of my time.”

As soon as the door closes, it’s impossible to tell who’s speaking. All Rey hears is mutual, rumbling disdain and the occasional threat of dismemberment.

Not one to waste time, she takes advantage of Ben’s absence to look for tissues. As fun as it is to get wet, it’s not particularly pleasant to feel her own slick sodden up her underwear. And while there’s no doubt in her mind that Ben would happily pick up where they left off, a better, more devious plan has started to coalesce in Rey’s mind. Office sex will be a thing, she vows, but perhaps not now.

This afternoon can be the start of something else.

Meanwhile, the tissues prove elusive. The longer she spends looking for them, the easier it is to get dramatic about the sensation between her legs. Unhelpfully, her brain supplies words like tacky and itchy and Rey forces herself to hum a song before her mind starts making comparisons to moist landscapes.

It isn’t until she’s desperate enough to check his desk drawers that she catches him in a lie.

It’s just a sandwich, so no surprise that she didn’t smell it earlier. There’s still a bit of remnant plastic around it, the best by date smeared with something oily. Kale chips have fallen out of their bag (she spots crumbs littering the folders underneath) and if she takes a big, gulping whiff of air, she can tell he probably devoured something spicy too.

That bastard she almost thinks. But then she breathes.

Honestly, it so matters so little. It’s sweet, actually, that he would ask Mitaka to hide evidence of his lunch so she could feel like hers was something special.

She bites her lip. Unless he did it because he assumed she’d be angry? Or weepy? Does he think she’s that fragile? Poor Rey and her messed up relationship with food. Poor Rey who could not handle being fake arrested without a consolation prize. Is she really that sensitive?

Well.

There was the time Han got violently ill after eating one of her experimental meatballs. Rey may or may not have threatened to set the recipe on fire when they got home. There may have been some light denouncing of Giada and all Italian cuisine in between stoplights, but to be fair: Ben never actually followed through with his threat to hide the lighter. She’d reined herself in after he’d bought her ice cream. Somewhere between her fifth and sixth bite of rocky road, she realized that no one else had gotten sick and hadn’t Han been complaining about his stomach when she and Ben had arrived? It wasn’t her fault.

And it was ages ago, but Rey does remember panicking at their first company banquet. Meeting and telling off Snoke by the coat check was cathartic, but there was something about seeing three forks and two knives by a plate that probably cost more than her life that left her feeling useless to the point of sickness. Ben had smiled when he’d caught her Googling under the table, had taken her phone and replaced it with his hand, and that was good. Fine. Hardly an overreaction. What was so worrying about using her resources?

She might have come on a little too strong today, but was it so wrong to be concerned? That chicken had survived a slapdash creation and the interrogation of a security guard. The odds of it retaining any kind of admirable flavor were slim.

Rey winces. Fine. Objectively, she may have a problem.

“Admit it,” she mutters to herself. “You would have hid the sandwich, too.”

“You found it?”

Rey looks up to see Ben staring down, her hands still on the lip of the drawer. His eyes flicker from her face to the secret lunch to the surprise one, but she can’t get a clear read on him. He seems to vacillate between embarrassment and fond exasperation with some healthy wariness filling in the cracks.

She clears her throat. “Well, yes,” she admits. And because she can’t help herself, pauses before asking, “Is it because I have a thing with food?”

His silence is telling. It wouldn’t be fair to say he shifts awkwardly, but it would be a little untrue to say he looks comfortable.

Rey swishes her hand in the air when he finally opens his mouth. “There’s no point in answering that. I know.” Would now be a good time to stand up? He seems even taller from the floor. “We can…” she flounders a little, “we can just—” She shuts the drawer. “Let’s just think of this as a teachable moment. Educational. I feel educated.”

Ben nods, eyes now carefully scanning her face, and Rey wonders what he sees. 

“You need to leave?” she asks finally, awkwardly, because the door is open.

He seems thankful for the change in subject. Whatever stiffness lingers in his shoulders melts away as he heads over to pick up the Tupperware from the floor. A few bits of potato must have escaped his fork; Rey wonders if he’ll step on them. “Hux and I reached a…truce,” he says, like the word pains him. “If I agree to call Tarkin and manage to schedule a videoconference, Hux will deal with the rest of the investors. It’s a fucking waste of time.” He stands, brushes at a knee, and walks back to the desk. “They were sold the second they knew the new contract was on the table, but Hux won’t rest until they sign it. Preferably in blood.”

“I see.” She steps closer because there has to be a way to salvage the messiness of the past few hours. Some way to let Ben know the sandwich was irrelevant, some way to feel a little more in control unless she can be in a place to examine everything properly.

And then she feels stupid. Because the solution is so obvious. The solution is to stick to the game plan.

“You’ll be free for dinner,” she blurts, and it’s not a question because that’s not how the beginning of this other game goes.

Just that—it only takes the words and her tone—and Ben’s shoulders stiffen up in recognition. He’s already realized how the rest of the night is going to go. “I will,” he says plainly, clearly trying to suppress a smile. “Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t care.” She means it. “Somewhere downtown.”

“Fancy?”

Why not. She likes him in a tie. “That works.”

“Belmont, then,” he says, and waits for her nod. “You’ll be at your place? I’ll call when I’m on my way.”

She stretches up to kiss his nose, lingering to enjoy the feeling of being close. “Perfect.”

He squeezes her hips once, firmly, before turning away. He’s almost halfway to the door before Rey feels like she can say, “Stop.” He pivots, expectant, and she takes another second to breathe because this is going to be glorious, this is going to be fun, but it’s been awhile and she has to shift to the right headspace. She can’t be the Rey that worries about something as silly as chicken. “Close the door.”

Good, she thinks. That was good. Firm. Decisive.

He reaches back to sightlessly close the door, eyes on her as she follows his path.

When she stands before him again, she presses a single finger against his sternum. He takes the instruction well, carefully stepping backward until his shoes hit glass. His breathing’s still calm. Then she cups him, quick but gentle. She wants him to feel the weight of her hand. The heat.

“You like this?” Not an order. This time, it really is a question. A check-in before they go any further. She knows what she wants, but it’s not only her decision. There are two people here. Two choices that need to align.

His pupils expand. “Yes.”

Excellent. She adjusts her hand, starting up a squeeze and release so gentle that she half-expects him not to feel it. But he does: his chest pauses in a breath. She keeps it up as she talks, never breaking the rhythm. Letting it build.

“Did Hux ask you to make the call in his office?”

“He…did.”

She considers this, letting her other hand slide up his chest. It’s almost instinct to rest the tip of her thumb just so—close enough to his nipple that he can imagine what it’d feel like if she rubbed. “When does he expect you?”

Their earlier foreplay has definitely helped to speed things along. He already looks slightly uncomfortable. “Soon. He expected me to leave right away.”

“But you don’t follow his orders, do you?”

He manages a single, breathless chuckle. “Not if I can help it.” 

“Not if you can help it,” Rey repeats. The longer this goes on, the easier it feels to shuck off the person she’d been this morning. Easier to ask for what she wants. “Whose orders are you following tonight?”

“Yours,” he says, slow and honest.

“Good.” Now she does break her rhythm, stopping altogether. He’s grown hard under her hand. As lightly as she can, she finally lets her thumb move where he wants it, the tip of her nail on the bud of his nipple. He lets out a small groan of relief. “When you leave, I need you to find a bathroom. You’re going to go into a stall and wait until you’re not alone. I don’t want you to jack off until someone might hear it.” Ben closes his eyes. “Because I know you’ll try to be quiet. I know you’ll struggle to go slow, but you will. And when you’re ready to come—are you listening, Ben?—when one more stroke will end it, I want you to stop. Walk to the edge and walk away. How do you think that will feel?” she pretends to wonder, her voice quiet. “Aching for what you can’t have?”

It takes him a moment to answer. He has to swallow. “Awful. It’ll—shit, Rey, it’ll be awful.”

“I bet. You’ll leak enough to slick up your whole cock. A little like you’re leaking now?” He has to be, but he doesn’t nod. She suspects he’s already imagining the feel of his hand, maybe dreading how badly he’ll ache. “No? Do I need to check?”

His eyes do snap open at that, burning hot. “You don’t—no. You don’t need to. I am.”

Irrelevant. She wants to see him, so she will. She sinks to her knees.

His weight shifts from foot to foot, wanting to move but unwilling to disobey. Her hands immediately go to his fly, bypassing pulling him out to shucking down his pants and boxers both, the fabric bunched on his thighs.

“Oh,” she says, as unaffected as she can manage. “You poor thing. I was right.”

She is: there is already a clear, small pool of precum shining in the afternoon sun. As she watches, he twitches and drools another drop, the excess spilling down the length of him like a tear.

“Are you—?” He doesn’t whine, but it’s a near, near thing.

No matter what she says, it wouldn’t help. Better to keep silent. So Rey only spares his face—pinker cheekbones, now, and a dusting of sweat—a glance before spitting in her hands and starting a gentle stroke. His throat gives a miserable rumble when she pauses to swipe her tongue across his slit.

She knows what it’s like to be in his position, to crave the touch and fear it all at once. All day, he makes decisions. All day, people wait on him and dance around, fearful of his moods and his power. Fairness only dictates that she turn the tables. She knows how freeing it can feel to be at someone’s mercy like this, but it isn’t always pleasant.

With that in mind, she leans forward to give him his first suck. He nearly bowls over.

“Fucking christ.” His hands fly to her hair. “I don’t—you’ve gotta slow it down, Rey. I’ll—"

She hums and keeps going, foregoing any grand technique for simple, deep sucks that build up the spit in her mouth. She lets it leak from the corners until he’s dripping, until the sound seems too lewd in the quiet of his office and his palms start to tap on her shoulders. She only considers stopping once he grips the scarf at her throat, his fingers digging deep. The fabric will soon tear.

“Close,” he bleats. “I’m cl—”

The tells are all there: his balls are tight and drawn, the pitch of his voice, even a faint, faint squeak from his shoes because his feet must be flexing. He can handle one more. Rey takes him in as far as she can, pulling off slowly, incrementally, using the back of a finger to trace the underside vein. She smiles when his thighs start to shake. She wonders how adventurous Ben will feel tonight, if he’ll let her use the—

“ _Rey_.”

She stands up.

Ben’s head rests against the glass. The faint pinkness in his cheeks has bloomed to a full red, and the flexing tendon in his jaw tells her that it’s still not safe to touch. On a different day, she could keep him here—right on the edge, hardly a second of reprieve. Instead she admires him until he slumps, breathing harder now that he’s survived the swell.

Absently, she notices that his phone is vibrating in his pocket. Hux can wait. Will have to wait, since Ben’s not done. There’s still another task.

Her panties are soaked again and her clit feels swollen and tender, but Rey brushes it off in lieu of walking back and gathering her things. A break. Ben looks thankful by the time she’s done. It’s a pleasing sight: his cock still out and wet. He knew she’d want to be the one to tuck him away. She does, admiring the bulge when she finally zips him up.

“You’ll remember the bathroom?” she reminds.

There’s a line on his forehead. “Still?”

“Still.” She’ll imagine it all the way home. “And text me when you’re done.”

A kiss on his flushed cheek, and she’s gone.

\--

Rey is very, very thankful that she hasn’t fixed her car window. The breeze is wonderfully soothing, even if it doesn’t help her mind from wandering to Ben. It took a healthy ten minutes to get back to her car, another five to navigate to the main road. He still hasn’t texted her.

She looks over at the passenger seat. No message light.

Did he forget?

Unlikely.

Is he…still going?

A flush heats her cheeks.

It’s harder now, in the safety of her car and isolation, to summon up that odd calmness and detachment that comes from being in charge. She’s not scared of giving orders, really. Not unused to it even, as a teacher. People do what she tells them to do all the time, but there’s something obviously, markedly different about that kind of control. It’s a hat she can only wear for a short amount of time. 

Stubbornly, her mind tugs her back to Ben. Such a shit morning and afternoon had bloomed into a something wildly, unexpectedly different. Even if she had planned on getting fucked in his office.

Still no message.

There’s far too much time left before dinner for her to spend it all at the apartment, so Rey turns off at the market exit. She owes Poe some hummus, after all, and—

Her phone flashes once. Twice. And Rey groans because she can’t pick it up, not in the car while she’s driving. There would undoubtedly be swerving and crashing and truly undesirable conversations with the cops.

_Couldn’t help myself, ma’am. My boyfriend was edging in his company’s bathroom, you see, because I said so. I was promised a post-handfuck text and I’m weak._

She makes it to the store, flinging her car into the first available parking spot and lunging for her phone.

>>fucking hell  
>>three times  
>>I almost came three fucking times

Rey bites her lip, pleased. 

>>I’m fucking desperate, Rey  
>>all I could think about was you on that desk  
>>touching yourself  
>>the way I would have fucked you

He’s still texting her. She can see the blinking dots and holds her breath.

>>on way to Hux now  
>>had to wait a fucking age for my hard on to die  
>>please tell me dinner will be quick

She smiles.

>>pick me up at six, Solo

And also:

>>no promises

\--

Her plan to lose time at the market works a little too well—it takes an elderly woman holding three bottles of Tabasco sauce asking for the time before Rey realizes she’ll now be stuck in traffic. By the time she makes it home, she’ll need to rush to get ready.

Standing in the check-out line, drumming her fingers on the cart handle in low-grade panic, Rey tries to distract herself by looking at all the things she could impulse buy. Candy, of course. Soda. A magazine about a British royal. Chapstick, batteries, stuffed novelty keychains for kids, mini flashlights, and…back up.

She squints, hand reaching out to tug one of the animals off its hook.

It’s a bee with soft black wings and a fuzzy stub of a stinger. There’s a red cardboard tag attached that says, “Bee Happy with Buzzer the Bumblebee!” Rey frowns. Having a name like that, surely it has to actually—ah, yes. With a firm squeeze, the little toy starts to vibrate. A cute thing, but why is she still staring at it? Something’s niggling in the back of her skull, a mix of a memory and an idea.

She stands still long enough for the weak vibration to die. As soon as the feeling disappears, she realizes what it reminds her of. And she will not blush whilst holding a children’s keychain, but oh, Ben.

Poor Ben.

\--

She answers the door hopping on one foot, heel halfway in place.

“Hey, sorry, almost done. Give me just—” is all she gets out before Ben crashes into her, his hands everywhere, backing her up into her inadequately small living room with the couch he’s far too large for, fingers on her ass, her waist, now the cradle of her jaw as he kisses her, growling something unintelligible under his breath.

Rey loses herself in it, too caught off guard to not rub her tongue against his or to drag him down on the cushions. It’s blissful, this thing they have. Something she never could have dreamed of in her earlier life—not because she didn’t think she deserved it, but because she didn’t know it was a possibility to have this connection, deep in a way she can’t explain to Finn or Poe or even Rose. They still look at her sideways, sometimes, and Rey knows their relationship is different—she and Ben both share profound scars—but it’s something she’s stopped doubting. How could she worry when it feels this right? When they can come together like this?

“I’m buying you a new fucking couch.”

Ben drags her out of her thoughts, gasping against her mouth. They’re halfway on, halfway off her (she refuses to call it old) lovingly used sofa, one of Ben’s knees between her legs and the other probably aching on the wooden floor. She can’t turn her head to see.

“My couch is fine,” she says, still breathless. Her dress is bunched up past her hips. It’s hard to ignore the achingly good pressure Ben’s putting on her clit. “I said no the first ten times you asked. Nothing’s changed.”

He must have some kind of response—his mouth immediately opens, breath indrawn—but he gets distracted by her breasts, drawing back enough to mouth at them through the thinness of her dress. She immediately moans, lost in the way the heat somehow seeps through her bra to warm her nipple. It’s almost cheating, for him to touch her tits. He knows she’s weak for it.

How did this happen? She had a plan. It was a wonderfully devilish plan, one where she was in charge and Ben suffered for the good of them both. She’d spent half the car ride home replaying how desperate he looked in his office, how wrecked he must have looked after edging in the stall. 

_Take charge again_ , she commands herself. She needs to order him to get up, to find the present she’d left for him in the bedroom. 

But good fucking god, it’s hard to stop. He makes it difficult to focus on anything other than feeling overwhelmed. His hands never stop moving—if he isn’t gently kneading the breast his mouth latches to, he’s plucking at a nipple or trying to push aside her panties to check how wet she’s become. Sometimes his knees are replaced with the full heaviness of his body and sometimes they’re back where they were when they fell on the couch in the first place. He’s in constant motion. And then there’s the kissing. The constant, ache-building kissing.

“Ben,” she finally manages, turning her head. He attacks the side of her neck. “Dinner.”

“We’re not going to dinner.”

It’s a process, but Rey convinces herself to pull her hand off of his ass. Makes it easier to think. “Yes, we are,” she corrects, and hopes she sounds firm. “You’re not done yet.”

Hearing that, he drops his head onto her shoulder. “I’m about to come in my pants, Rey. I can’t last through dinner.” Even as he says it, though, he starts to rein himself in. The high-intensity, frenetic energy he’d dragged through the door gets slowly tucked away. “Especially not with whatever you’ve got planned.”

“You know what I’ve got planned?” she asks, honestly curious.

He shakes his head. He’s propped above her now, no longer rocking her into the cushions, and Rey’s glad she didn’t have time to wear make-up. He can’t seem to stop touching her face, always returning to rub a thumb across her cheeks, her chin, her jaw.

She closes her eyes, luxuriating in the feeling for a handful of heartbeats.

Then, “Get up.” She says it gently. “We need to go.”

He gives her a mournful look, but rolls to the side to free her from the couch. She’s only on her feet—her unsteady feet, she realizes—for half a second before she gasps. He’s cupped her through her panties, eyes wide and pleading as he stares into her own.

“Can I eat you out? Do we have time for that, at least?”

 _No, not even for that_ fights a quick and bloody war with _Do you want me on the floor or the sofa?_

She pretends to consider, stalling by looking at the old clock on the wall that she’d stolen from the school dumpster. It’s hard to make any kind of decision when he’s looking at her like that. When she’d already planned on switching out her panties for new, less soaked ones.

He hasn’t moved an inch, eyes still trained on her face. Anticipating her reaction, ready to either do as she bids or defiantly attempt to do what he wants.  
As if she really had a choice.

She backs up from him, leaving a small gap. It’s delightful to see the shift in his mood when instead of turning away, she lifts up her dress instead, giving him a full, unobstructed view of the black lace.

“Take them off with your teeth,” she orders, and tries not to gush when she sees how it lights up his eyes.

He does so, so well. 

\--

“Breathe,” she says, delicately spearing her asparagus.

The restaurant is not crowded. Rey didn’t exactly expect the place to be overrun with patrons, but it was a relief to walk through the door half an hour late to see empty tables. The space between their table and the next suits her plans quite nicely.

Especially when Ben keeps swearing.

“Oh. Oh, shit.” He’s quiet, but he does have the kind of voice that garners attention. Even when he’s trying not to be heard. His voice is too deep. “I—shit, Rey. I’m—I don’t think I can…fuck.”

She watches him gather up a fistful of the linen tablecloth as she chews. Part of her wishes she could see his eyes, when he’s like this. He keeps closing them whenever she hits the button.

Even if it fell from where she’s perched it on her knee, no one would know what it was unless they owned it. She’d had to dig it up from the depths of her closet, although how the toy could have fallen out of rotation when it offers up such lovely noises from Ben, Rey doesn’t know. It’s an oversight she’s happy to correct.

She hits the button.

Ben almost falls into his soup (pea, she thinks he ordered) with relief. He pants softly.

When he feels assured that she won’t immediately turn the toy back on, he grits his teeth and levels an almost-glare. “We need to leave.”

She pretends to consider, making a show of leaning over to steal a spoonful of his soup. “I think it would be a waste to drive all this way and not enjoy our entrée, don’t you think?”

“I think,” he grits out, “that if you hit that button one more time, I’m hauling you to the car.”

Is it too soon? The plastic feels smooth in her left hand. “I have more faith in you than that.”

“You shouldn’t.”

Absently, Rey tries to remember what she ordered for the main course. She’ll let him finish his soup, she decides. Maybe even half of his steak. He already looks frazzled, unkempt—there’s a streak of redness peeking out from his opened collar (the tie had been ditched in the car ride) and a few shiny spots of sweat on his brow.

“Rey,” he tries to get her attention again. Desperate. “You don’t know how this feels.”

She does and she doesn’t. He acts like he’s never been this cruel to her in public, but his forgetfulness is understandable. It’s hard to keep a clear mind when you’re on the suffering end of unpredictable torment. Even if it’s a sweet pain.

Rey waits until the server comes to take away their plates before dabbing at her lips with a napkin. “You told me once,” she reminds him. “But I’d like to hear it again.”

He’s holding his fork like a lifeline. “How it feels?”

She nods, thumb caressing the remote again.

Ben eyes her warily. “I don’t know,” he starts slowly. “It’s…I feel tight. Drawn up. It’s all I can think about.” That much is obvious. He’s having trouble articulating his thoughts. “If you’ll turn it on. How long you’ll keep it on. If I’ll be able to handle it.”

“You’re doing well.” She knows he responds well to praise. “And we’re almost done.”

Before he can take that to mean that they’ll be skipping out before dessert, she depresses the button with a soft click. He must have been half-expecting it: shoulders already tense, he manages to look calm up until he cradles his face in both hands, elbows on the table. Concentrating. Before he’s completely hidden from view, Rey catches a glimpse of his face. Eyes screwed shut, mouth open for measured breathing.

She keeps it up—relentless on and offs that leave him a broken, sweaty mess—until their food comes out.

Ben gasps when the last one ends. Rey makes a show of grabbing for her purse and letting him hear her drop the controller inside. Let him know he can enjoy his food. If that’s possible.

“Fuck.” His voice is hoarse. A passing waiter falters in his step, twisting his head to check. Ben’s oblivious. “This is so much harder than I remember.” 

With two hands, it’s easier to dig into her meal. She’d let Ben pick from the menu and he’d been in no position to care, so she’s not quite sure what’s inside the tubes of pasta. Not that she cares, with the way it smells. The first bite is decadent, melting in her mouth and full of spicy, unexpected heat.

“Rey,” he begs. His steak sits untouched.

“Isn’t it delicious?” she says, and readies her fork for another bite.

\--

The level of intensity is unreal.

Ben attacks her like a half-broken man, slamming the door shut and flinging her down on the bed hard enough to make her bounce. It’s to be expected. Dinner had been a long, long affair—even if she’d ordered him to take out the toy before they left.

“Do you have any idea—?” He doesn’t bother to finish, covering her body with his, wet lips nipping at her own. “Do you have _any_ idea how hard that was? How much I wanted to end it?”

“I know,” she sympathizes. It’s like her earlier orgasm never existed: she feels desperate now, too, clawing at his shirt. Whining a little when she realizes she forgot to undo the buttons on his cuffs. “I know.” 

Neither of them bother with her dress. It’s unceremoniously pushed up, her panties long gone in a show of solidarity. Part of her feels like this should be slower: a focused, deliberate end to their evening with more orders, more pauses. She’d had dreams of making him recite the whole menu, sinking down further on his cock the more he remembered, pulling up when he made a mistake. She’d toyed with the idea of bringing the dessert home. Eating it from him, warning him not to make her spill any chocolate on the sheets. But they’re done. _He’s_ done. Rey’s seen him crazed, and the look on his face now tops anything they’ve done before.

In pity, she rolls until she’s on top, rocking on a thick thigh as her hands scramble with his zipper. Almost there. He’s impossibly hard under the fabric. Her cunt throbs for relief. 

“So _cruel_ ,” she hears him babbling as she works. 

Success. She sinks down on him, no teasing. She’d half-expected him to come immediately, but he doesn’t, and so she gives them both a minute to adjust to relief. He feels thick inside her. Before they’d started fucking regularly, she remembers the real effort of coaching her body to accept him. Her body’s since learned the shape of his, but somehow she’s always shocked that he _fits_ , that they’re capable of fucking in the first place. 

He pumps his hips twice he abandons the idea, head thrown back against the sheets. Overwhelming, she assumes, to feel her wet and clenching on his cock after so long. He’s probably dreamed of it all day. But there’s no sense in drawing this out any longer. She’s too proud of him. He was so good. Her Ben. 

“I can’t—” he whines, and in a surge, he’s pumping up wildly, fingers digging into her hips hard enough to make her gasp. 

Two pumps. Three. And then he comes with a roar, pulling her down to him so he can muffle the sound in her neck. 

Her clit still throbs for attention, but she supposes it’s her turn to beg. He’ll delight in making her ask for it, she knows. As soon as he recovers. Until then, she’s content enough to swirl her hips and grind lazily, enjoying the way he continues to twitch and groan in sensitivity. 

When he can breathe again, he asks, “Not that I’m complaining, but where did that all come from?”

She considers the question. It came from a place of desire. Trust. The need to feel in control and to solidify the way she’s conquered her past. It happened because she needed it, because she knows he trusts her to take what she wants. It happened because of Pete, if she has to fully examine the day, and because Ben hid his sandwich and because of the way he never, ever lies when she asks a question. But if she thinks back to the beginning of the day, there’s a better answer. 

“Chicken,” she says, and laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I haven't written anything in ages. I forgot how traumatic it was. XD 
> 
> If you're curious, [here's a link](https://www.cookingclassy.com/one-pan-cajun-chicken-dinner/) to what Rey made Ben for lunch. It's really simple and _delicious_. I nix the thyme and add double the amount of cayenne pepper. 
> 
> Again, you're awesome for slogging through 12k words of whatever the hell this was. It means a lot to me, knowing that you spent some of your free time with my writing. :D <3


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